Letitia Elizabeth Landon

Girl At Her Devotions. By Newton - Poem by Letitia Elizabeth Landon

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SHE was just risen from her bended knee,But yet peace seem'd not with her piety;For there was paleness upon her young cheek,And thoughts upon the lips which never speak,But wring the heart that at the last they break.Alas! how much of misery may be readIn that wan forehead, and that bow'd down head:--Her eye is on a picture, woe that everLove should thus struggle with a vain endeavourAgainst itself: it is a common tale,And ever will be while earth soils prevailOver earth's happiness; it tells she stroveWith silent, secret, unrequited love.

It matters not its history; love has wingsLike lightining , swift and fatal, and it springsLike a wild flower where it is least expected,Existing whether cherish'd or rejected;Living with only but to be content,Hopeless, for love is its own element,--Requiring nothing so that it may beThe martyr of its fond fidelity.A mystery art thou, thou mighty one!We speak thy name in beauty, yet we shunTo own thee, Love, a guest; the poet's songsAre sweetest when their voice to thee belongs,And hope, sweet opiate, tenderness, delight,Are terms which are thy own peculiar right;Yet all deny their master,--who will ownHis breast thy footstool, and his heart thy throne?

'Tis strange to think if we could fling asideThe masque and mantle that love wears from pride,How much would be, we now so little guess,Deep in each heart's undream'd, unsought recess.The careless smile, like a gay banner borne,The laugh of merriment, the lip of scorn,--And for a cloak what is there that can beSo difficult to pierce as gaiety?Too dazzling to be scann'd, the haughty browSeems to hide something it would not avow;But rainbow words, light laugh, and thoughtless jest,These are the bars, the curtain to the breast,That shuns a scrutiny: and she, whose formNow bends in grief beneath the bosom's storm,Has hidden well her wound,--now none are nighTo mock with curious or with careless eye,(For love seeks sympathy, a chilling yes,Strikes at the root of its best happiness,And mockery is worm-wood), she may dwellOn feelings which that picture may not tell.